She Thought Her Husband Was Cheating and Got Her Revenge

There are betrayals that do not exist until someone decides to believe in them. These are two women who invented an affair, got revenge in the bed of the man their husbands despised most, and too late discovered the size of their mistake. One paid for it with everything. The other was luckier than she deserved.

Marisol heard the key turn in the lock. She was sitting in the living room armchair, freshly showered, wearing a robe that was no longer good for anything. She had scrubbed her body under the water until it felt raw, as if the sponge could erase what she had done an hour earlier in Gustavo’s apartment. It did not erase it.

She closed her eyes and went back, unwillingly, to that room. She had shown up at the door in the shortest skirt she owned and with no panties on, and as soon as Gustavo opened it, she put her hand on his fly before the other man could say hello. “I’ve come to fuck,” she blurted, her voice shaking with rage. Gustavo got that lucky pig’s gleam in his eye. He dragged her inside, ripped her blouse apart at the buttons, and shoved her against the hallway wall. He grabbed her tits over her bra, took them out, and started sucking on them with that drooling mouth she had always found disgusting. Marisol let him, even dug her nails into the back of his neck so it would be clear on the video she was already recording from the dresser.

“You’re going to know what a cock is, babe,” Gustavo growled in her ear as he slipped two fingers between her legs and checked, with a filthy grin, that she was wet. “Look at you dripping, and you said it disgusted you.”

She didn’t answer him. She dropped to her knees on the floor and unbuckled his belt as if she were in a hurry to finish this. She pulled his pants and underwear down in one yank. His cock sprang up a finger from her face, thick, veins standing out, and Marisol thought, with a disgust that made her swallow hard, that it was exactly that cock that was going to destroy Adrián. She grabbed it at the base and took it into her mouth to the hilt, without stopping for air, swallowing her gag reflex so the phone would catch the angle well, catch her throat well, catch the spit running down her chin. Gustavo held her by the nape and started fucking her mouth with short, dirty thrusts, knocking the head of his cock against her uvula.

“That’s it, bitch, that’s it, take it all,” he panted, looking at the camera. “Let your little husband see how you suck my dick.”

She looked up at him from below with tears in her eyes, pulled his cock out of her mouth, spat on it, swallowed it again, ran it over her face, rubbed it across her tits. Every gesture was a knife meant for Adrián. When Gustavo yanked her up by the hair and bent her face-down over the dresser, right in front of the phone, Marisol arched her ass of her own accord and spread her cheeks apart with both hands so everything could be seen. Her swollen pussy, her asshole, the skirt wrinkled at her waist. Gustavo spat in his hand, smeared it over the tip, and drove into her in one dry thrust, balls deep. Marisol let out a guttural moan born of hatred, not pleasure, and even so pleasure was there too, mixed in, and that was the worst of it.

“Harder,” she told him through clenched teeth, looking for the camera. “Harder, asshole, break me.”

And Gustavo did break her. He grabbed her by the hair like someone taking a dog by the leash and started fucking her with all the bad temper he had in him. He slammed her thighs against her ass with every thrust, her cheeks slapped, her tits swung loose above the edge of the dresser. She came without wanting to, in a dirty, guilty convulsion, clenching around his cock in waves while still staring straight at the phone. Gustavo pulled out, flipped her over, sat her on the edge, and forced her legs wide open. He pushed back inside her in that position, all the way in, never taking his eyes off the camera, tugging one nipple, occasionally smacking her lightly in the face to make a record in the video of the contempt with which he was treating her.

“Open up,” he ordered at the end, panting. “Open your mouth. I’m going to fill it.”

Marisol knelt in front of him again, tits out, mouth open, tongue forward like a porn video bitch, exactly what Adrián was going to see. Gustavo jerked over her face twice and came in streams: on her tongue, on her nose, on her cheeks, in her hair. She swallowed what she could, swallowed slowly so it would show well, ran a finger over her cheek, gathered up what had landed there and put that in her mouth too. She looked at the phone lens without blinking, her face smeared, and that was the last image she recorded before stopping the camera. The image that a few hours later would be on her husband’s phone.

The phone had rung minutes earlier. Her husband had already seen the video.

“So this was your revenge, huh?” Adrián’s voice came out broken, unrecognizable. “Not one question. Not one scream. You just wanted to hurt me where it hurt most. And with him, on top of that.”

“Adrián, I… I was blind,” she stammered.

“You weren’t blind. You went looking for an excuse. No one in their right mind does what you did if they still want to save anything. You already wanted to break it. You didn’t even bother to check anything.”

“I swear I thought that Carla and you…”

“I never cheated on you. Did I leave you on your own? Yes. I was killing myself working to save up the down payment for a house on the outskirts of Seville. That was going to be my surprise.” His voice broke. “And this was yours.”

He hung up. When Adrián came through the door, he did not look at her. He went straight to the bedroom, took two suitcases down from the top shelf of the closet, and started packing his clothes. Marisol tried to follow him; he stopped her dead with an open palm held out, not touching her, like someone pushing away something dirty.

Her phone began to vibrate. A message. Another. Another. Adrián was writing in every group they shared, the ones from work, the family ones, the usual ones: “Just letting you know that Marisol and I are no longer together. The reason?” And below that, in each group, the video began uploading. She knew exactly which one it was. She folded in on herself in a cry with no bottom.

“I wanted revenge,” Adrián said to no one, dragging the suitcases toward the door. “There you have it. She’ll get the divorce papers.”

And he left. Marisol knew there was no way back.

That same night she showed up at her parents’ house. They threw her out like a dog. Adrián had already called them, already shown them the messages, already shown them the video so there could be no doubt.

“You disgust me,” her father said from the threshold, not letting her in. “No woman who does what you did sleeps under this roof.”

She ended up on her sister Rocío’s sofa, where Rocío took her in grudgingly and in exchange for a two-hour sermon. By then the video was already flying through half the city. Hundreds of people had seen her naked body, and above all who she was with and how. She lost her job. She lost her contacts. She even lost the desire to go out into the street.

She had to leave. In Spain she could not even buy bread without someone pointing at her. She crossed the ocean and ended up in Asunción, with another name and another hair color. But the uprooting kept dragging her down: first alcohol, then worse things, then a man as broken as she was. Three years in which she stopped being a person.

It was her father and Rocío who traveled to find her. They found her turned into a scarecrow, still beautiful beneath the ruin, but with an empty stare. They had her admitted for six months. When she came out, she had recovered her sanity. She had recovered nothing else.

Rocío gave her a job in her notions shop so she could rebuild little by little. And when the scandal finally died down and no one looked at her strangely in the street anymore, Marisol made her last mistake: she started looking for Adrián. She moved heaven and earth. He had quit, moved away, disappeared. The only thing she managed to get out of humiliating herself again in front of her in-laws was that he was still alive.

One afternoon a woman her age came into the notions shop, dark-haired, with a swollen chest and a nursing bra peeking out beneath her blouse. She asked for her by name.

“I’m Noelia,” she said. “I came to thank you and ask you for two favors.”

“I don’t understand anything.”

“Let’s go step by step. I met my partner at a consultancy years ago. He was married and madly in love with his wife. I was crazy about him and he never once looked at me. He only had eyes for her. Until she did something monstrous to him.” Marisol began to tremble. “Do I need to tell you the name?”

“Adrián,” she whispered.

“The same one. The one you destroyed because you thought he was sleeping with Carla. Did you know he had almost put down a deposit on the house in Seville? That’s why he wasn’t touching you. Not because he didn’t love you, but because he was killing himself working. And you, instead of asking, shoved that pig in your mouth and filmed it so the whole world could see.”

Marisol was crying, unable to defend herself.

“I still love him,” was the only thing she could manage to say.

“Too late. Thanks to your stupidity, Adrián is mine. It took me a whole year to hook him, you know? A year after a man who still loved you like a faithful dog. He quit, I followed him, I built a company with him. Blood, sweat, and tears. And I owe it all to you.”

“And you came to rub it in my face?”

“I came for the two favors. The first.” She tossed an envelope onto the counter. “Sign the divorce papers. The second: leave him alone. We already have a child. You lost him all by yourself.”

Noelia turned and left. Marisol followed her to the door like a sleepwalker. On the sidewalk a man with a baby in his arms was waiting. It was Adrián. Her Adrián. She watched them walk away, the three of them together, and at last understood that that afternoon, in front of Gustavo’s apartment, she had not taken revenge on anyone: she had executed herself.

***

The elevator doors were closing and Damián was inside, pale, staring at the phone screen. I was frozen on the landing, unable to go in with him.

“Is something wrong, ma’am?” the security guard asked me.

“No… no, I’m leaving.”

I didn’t want to wait for Damián. I wouldn’t have known what to say to him. That morning I had gotten my revenge on the sofa in Hugo’s office, the man my husband hated most in the world, and someone had made sure the photos reached his phone while he was at work. I thought I had proof that Damián was cheating on me. A hotel card, a couple of ambiguous messages. That was enough for my pride to decide for me. I couldn’t be stupider.

When I got home I went into the shower. I felt dirty, stained, as if Hugo had used me and thrown me away. Under the water his image came back on top of me, on that black leather sofa that smelled of expensive cologne. I had walked into the office in a red dress, no panties, determined to bring down fifteen years of marriage in a single afternoon. Hugo got up from his desk with that owner’s smile that drove Damián crazy, locked the door, and said, without preamble:

“Stand against the glass. So people can see you from the street.”

And I obeyed, idiot that I was. I pulled my dress up to my waist, pressed my tits against the window on the twenty-something floor, and showed him my bare ass. Hugo came up behind me, kicked my legs apart, shoved his hand in front, and checked with two fingers that I was wet. “What a little slut Damián’s wife turned out to be,” he whispered in my ear, and instead of slapping him I pushed my ass back and brushed his fly with it. He was already hard under the suit pants.

He dragged me to the sofa, ripped my dress off from the top, left me only in my heels, and threw me onto my back. He opened his fly without taking his pants all the way down, pulled out his cock — thick, heavy, the head already shining — and brought it to my face. “Suck it, babe. Suck your husband’s cock through someone else.” I opened my mouth and took it all the way in. He shoved it down my throat, I took it out, sucked it again, ran my tongue over his balls, looked up at him while he took out his phone. That was when he took the first photo. I heard it, the dry click of the shutter, and instead of getting scared a black excitement grew inside me: yes, take it, take all of them, let Damián see, let him know what I’m doing to him. It was the worst thought of my life.

He laid me back on the sofa and spread my legs with both hands. There were no preliminaries. He rammed his cock into me, no condom, no permission, and started fucking me as if he had been waiting years for that moment. The sofa creaked under me, I dug my heels into the back of his suit, and he, with the phone in one hand, kept taking photos of my face, of my tits bouncing, of my open cunt taking his cock all the way in. “Look at the camera, look at it properly,” he ordered, and I looked, because that was also what I had gone there for. He made me get on all fours on the sofa, ass raised. He shoved it in again, pulling my hair, and with his free hand he squeezed my asshole with his thumb. “I’ll take this one another day too,” he whispered, laughing, and I came from rage and disgust at hearing it, clamping around his cock in spasms.

He finished exactly as I knew he would. He pulled out, made me turn around, jerked himself over my face, and came in streams into my mouth, on my chin, on my tits, leaving a white trail from my neck down to my nipples. He took the final photo at that moment: me with my eyes shut, tongue out, covered in someone else’s semen. That was the one that reached Damián in the office, on his computer, in front of all his coworkers. That was the knife in the back. And I had signed it with my own face.

Under the shower water every detail came back to me, every photo, every dirty word. In the moment it had seemed like perfect revenge. Now I only wanted to peel my skin off.

If the hotel card had been real, maybe I would have touched myself there and then, remembering the afternoon, savoring my revenge. But there was no revenge. I sat down in the shower stall with a blank mind. I didn’t cry. I never cried. I was always the tough one, the one with character, the one who had the last word at home.

Damián came home before seven, when I was coming out of the bathroom. I found him in the bedroom stuffing his clothes into a bag, undone, without a word for me.

“Damián, stop. We need to talk.”

Nothing. It was as if he couldn’t hear me. Then Tomás, our son, came in and understood in a second that his father was leaving.

“No, Dad, don’t go…”

That split me in two. I tore the bag from his hands and clutched it to my chest.

“Tomás, go to your room. Your father and I need to talk.”

When the door closed, I looked him in the eye.

“I’m the one who ruined everything. If anyone has to leave this house, it’s me. But first you’re going to listen to me. You need to know why I did it.”

“Give me the bag. I don’t want to hear you. What’s done is done.”

I would have preferred him to insult me, to shout at me, even to slap me across the face. I deserved it. But Damián wasn’t like that: so sensitive, so quiet, so incapable of hurting anyone. He chose the worst way to punish me. Silence.

He did not leave the house. He moved up to the loft, to a mattress without sheets, and from that night on we stopped existing for one another except through Tomás.

I needed to know what had happened at the office. I called Hugo’s secretary, pretending to be clueless. She told me that Damián had gotten out of the elevator, left his jacket, asked her to tell the boss he was resigning, and left without a scene. No shouting, no punching anything. I felt better on one side and more broken on the other: he hadn’t even allowed himself anger.

Two months passed like that. Damián came back to the table for Tomás, but he ate with his eyes on his plate and went back up to the loft as soon as he was done. I tried all my weapons, the usual ones: the strong woman, the authoritarian one, the one who imposed her will on everyone. They were useless. They only made the pit deeper.

One night I went up to take him some sheets and ended up crying on the stairs. It was there, crying for the first time in my life, that I understood two things. The first, that I had not taken revenge for wounded love, but for the shitty character I had carried since childhood, the one that confused pride with being right. The second, that I loved Damián. Not out of habit or because of Tomás. I loved him for real, and I discovered it just as I was losing him.

My birthday came. Tomás ran into the bed with a gift: a coat by a designer I had followed for years and we had never been able to afford. “It was Dad,” the boy said, delighted. Later, spying on the computer history, I discovered that Damián had ordered it three weeks earlier. After what I had done to him. That was proof that, beneath the resentment, something was still alive.

“Looks good on you,” was all he said, dryly, without coming near.

“Damián, when are you going to let me explain?”

“You already explained it with the photos.”

I did not give up. I stopped imposing and started asking. I made him the things he liked, gave him back his space, let him be the one to set the pace with Tomás. It took months, but one night, after putting the boy to bed, I found him sitting on the loft stairs with two glasses of wine. He didn’t say “I forgive you.” He said something harder.

“What hurts me most isn’t what you did. It’s that you did it without asking me. As if fifteen years were worth less than a single question.”

“I know,” I answered, and for once there was no pride in my voice. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to let me start again.”

He looked at me for a long time. Then he handed me one of the glasses. That night he came down from the loft. There was no sex or grand speech; he just fell asleep holding me, like we hadn’t slept in each other’s arms for ages. The next morning he told me he had booked a cruise, a whole month, the three of us. A fresh start.

I learned the lesson the hard way: the justice a woman takes into her own hands almost never lands on the person we think it will. Sometimes it only lands on ourselves. I was much luckier than I deserved, and I do not intend to waste this second chance.